Angel
by saiyajin 17
Summary: the tale of an angel
1. part 1 of 2

Angel, part 1  
  
The young man walks, long coat trailing the ground,  
  
The night air is bitter, yellow moonlight shines round;  
  
Creatures of the night are silenced by the sound  
  
Of his invisible aura, silently crowned.  
  
  
  
He wanders park central, frail leaves 'neath his feet,  
  
The nature in contrast with stone-cold concrete;  
  
Mortal's destruction is almost complete:  
  
Ashes to ashes, from tarmac to peat.  
  
  
  
A voice is heard sighing, alone on the grass,  
  
The young man stops, the sole one to pass.  
  
A flick of his coat, blonde hair, eyes like glass,  
  
'May God always love you,' from his aura of brass.  
  
The sighing then ceases, the figure would now  
  
Be at peace with himself; 'Oh thank you... how  
  
Did you know?' The young man smiled back  
  
Before disappearing into the still of the black.  
  
  
  
As the young man walks on, hands inside his sleeves,  
  
A girl is seen crying upon hands and knees.  
  
The young man kneels 'side her; his long blonde hair frees  
  
As he whispers 'God loves you, so stop weeping... Please.'  
  
The girl looks up, ceases sobbing and says  
  
'Who are you?' The young mans stands up and displays  
  
His eyes flickering silver as the girl wipes her own  
  
And with a smile the girl leaves: the young man is alone.  
  
  
  
The young man continues, and then yet again  
  
Is greeted by weeping; sees fresh blood and then  
  
He finds the old man, clutching his chest in pain;  
  
He's been stabbed in the torso, so the young man remains.  
  
He removes his trenchcoat, to cover the man  
  
Who is somewhat alarmed by the young man's wing-span;  
  
'May God's strength now heal you-' bleeding stops at once;  
  
The old man stutters, 'thank you', then promptly absconds.  
  
  
  
On passing a park bench, the young man now stands;  
  
There's a drunkard out cold, bottle in cold hands.  
  
As he studies the addict he knows and understands  
  
Why he lies here. 'God is with you, be still,' he commands.  
  
He takes off his trenchcoat, and virgin-white wings  
  
Envelop the vagabond who looks up, his heart sings;  
  
'Gabriel... Is that you?' He mutters though the cold.  
  
The young man contentedly smiles, beaming gold.  
  
  
  
  
  
©vig, 2003 


	2. part 2 of 2

Angel, part 2  
  
The young man walks, long coat trailing the ground  
  
The night air is bitter, yellow moonlight shines round;  
  
Creatures of the night are silenced by the sound  
  
Of his invisible aura, silently crowned.  
  
He wanders park central, bronze leaves 'pon the floor,  
  
His thoughts are tangles of flesh and gore;  
  
He ponders his ailment, and dreams up the cure-  
  
Forgetting his defect, no matter who for.  
  
A voice is heard whispering, deep in his mind  
  
Of pain and of suffering for all of his kind:  
  
Condemned to the night, so that man sees him blind,  
  
Blind to the wings with which he is entwined.  
  
His bangs of blonde hair fall over his face  
  
To cover the eyes of angelic grace.  
  
Those eyes of his, with silver have shined  
  
Yet the sorrow within is lurking behind.  
  
The young man walks on, keeping at bay  
  
Within his own self, his thoughts locked away.  
  
They've been in his head since that fateful day  
  
Of his 'rebirth to the light'... At least that's what they say.  
  
The thoughts are so varied, rationale has gone,  
  
The thoughts are eventually merged into one,  
  
This one single thought, once infinite to begin  
  
Spawned his hatred for his 'gift' from within.  
  
The force of the wind sends a chill to his bone,  
  
Like a quicksilver blade that flaunts its hone.  
  
A voice is heard crying, though he is alone;  
  
He soon realises that it is his own.  
  
He can't help it - freaks have feelings too -  
  
Wings aren't that common, so what can he do?  
  
It's nurture, not nature, that makes the soul:  
  
If only man knew this, his mind would be whole.  
  
As a babe, he was neglected by his own kin,  
  
Found with his reincarnated sin -  
  
His wings, that made an angel of him.  
  
Was he mutant or was he seraphim?  
  
Seen as a God-send by men of the cloth,  
  
But to the rest of the waking world he was not  
  
Seen as human, but rather a demon in disguise;  
  
An outcast, even in his own mother's eyes.  
  
He falls to his knees, composure has fled,  
  
The voices he hears are all in his head,  
  
And as no one cares, he ought to be dead -  
  
Why can't he be treated like a person instead?  
  
Why, why must it be like this?  
  
He can't understand why passers-by hiss;  
  
Or why they flee in terror and awe  
  
And why he's only accepted by the lame and the poor.  
  
His life flashes rapidly before his eyes,  
  
He raises himself, then glides to the skies  
  
He's leaving this world, no need for goodbyes;  
  
There's no one to miss him, he knows as he flies.  
  
With a heavy sigh his heart is set  
  
With eighteen carat gold regret.  
  
He utters 'there is no God' - he is sure -  
  
After all he is human, and nothing more.  
  
  
  
© vig, 2003 


End file.
